


Tidings of Comfort and Joy

by apanoplyofsong



Series: let your heart be light [4]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-16
Updated: 2015-12-16
Packaged: 2018-05-07 01:28:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5438429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apanoplyofsong/pseuds/apanoplyofsong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bellamy kind of hates his seasonal job, but at least it comes with the opportunity to see Clarke Griffin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tidings of Comfort and Joy

**Author's Note:**

> I got stuck on the plot for this for a _long time_ , so it kind of is what it is and hopefully works alright. Definite thanks to [Hannah](http://teamquiche.tumblr.com/) and [Julia](http://enoughtotemptme.tumblr.com/) for listening to me whine about that while it was happening.
> 
> Title from 'God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen'.

For the third time in as many hours, Bellamy reminds himself exactly why he's doing this job. 

The time frame works almost perfectly for the period his work placement at the campus library is paused while the building is closed for winter break. He likes Christmas. He likes kids. He gets discounts on all his presents for the year. The pay is surprisingly good. 

It doesn't matter that the beard itches like crazy, or that he's pretty sure he's getting a rash from this much polyester, or that it turns out he hates when Christmas and children combine. 

He's a goddamn mall Santa, and he's going to do his job. Even if the padding kills him. 

Jasper, the tall gangly kid behind the camera, signals it's time for his break and Bellamy sighs internally, giving one more wave to the toddlers stomping and bouncing in line before walking off "stage" and through the maintenance hallway to one of the mall's break rooms. He's pretty sure he needs at least two cups of coffee and something with a lot of sugar to make it through the rest of this shift. 

"I know it's supposed to be different when it's your own kid, but I honestly have no idea how parents make it through Christmas without just fucking murdering someone." 

Bellamy looks up from where he's slumped against a table and sees Clarke walk in, pulling off the weird shoe covers that make her feet look pointed and throwing down her elf hat, leaving her blonde hair mussed as she speaks. 

She flops into the seat next to him, exhaling heavily and laying her head on her arms so she's looking up at him, all blue eyes and pink cheeks, from where her face is pressed close to the linoleum tabletop. 

It's kind of a problem. 

He met Clarke Griffin in his Renaissance art history class last semester, unable to resist when she started cracking dick jokes under her breath from the seat next to him. He was in the class for a general education credit, which he'd finally decided to address his senior year, and she was a junior, there because she apparently actually really loved the art. Opportunity for dick jokes included. 

He'd maybe gotten a little fond of her throughout the semester; spending nights before tests at each other's apartments, quizzing each other around mouths stuffed with pizza crust and heckling whenever they got an answer wrong. She was gorgeous, and smart, and had a dry, sarcastic wit that rivaled his own. He hadn't been prepared for that. 

He'd figured it would go away over the break and inevitably when spring semester came and their classes no longer overlapped. 

Then he'd walked in for his third shift at the mall to see Clarke standing in a vibrant green elf costume way more flattering than anything felt had a right to be, grin bright and genuine when she spotted him, and that idea had been shot. 

When he had applied for the seasonal mall job to carry him through winter break, he’d anticipated being anyone other than Santa, but it turned out management didn’t care if his skin was several shades darker than the typical depiction as long as the costume fit. Bellamy certainly hadn’t anticipated Clarke being anywhere near it. They had never talked about money, but it was pretty apparent from her apartment and her car and her clothes that it wasn’t a primary concern of hers.

The thought must have been printed across his face because, after coming over to greet him, she just shrugged one shoulder.

“My mom’s cool with paying for my classes, but that’s mostly because having a daughter with an art and business degree is better than a daughter with no degree at all. And art supplies get expensive. That was our compromise.”

He had nodded, asked how her last finals were going, and they’d fallen back into old habits within the week.

Now he sighs and takes off his own hat and wig to run a hand through where his mop of curls have plastered against his scalp.

"Yeah. I got asked for three giraffes and Indonesia today. Not a trip; the _actual country_ of Indonesia. I checked. I mean, I like kids, and I like Christmas, but I had no idea they could be this hellish when combined. " 

Clarke hums in agreement, closing her eyes for a moment before smirking up at him. 

"Wanna see how big of a cookie we can find today?"

They split a double doozie the size of his head, the fudge icing sandwiched between M&M cookies helping to revive him. Or maybe that's just Clarke. He tells himself not to lick the icing off her lips either way. 

 

* * *

 

His next shift involves wrestling with a particularly determined 2-year-old trying to scream and wriggle her way out of his lap while Bellamy desperately tries to hold on long enough for Jasper to take the picture. Times like this, it’s really damn good the fake beard hides his grimace, or he’d probably have been fired by now.

He looks over when the kid finally breaks free, kicking his shin in the process, and sees Clarke crouched down next to a little girl with long dark hair, talking and smiling gently. She holds up a finger and ducks behind one of the plywood trees they use for storage, returning with a mini candy cane and a glittering cardboard snowflake that she hands to the waiting child. Bellamy can see the dried tear tracks across chubby cheeks as a smile pulls them open, shyly showing off little gaps where a few of her teeth should be and he has a flash of Octavia around the same age, all energy and lightning-quick emotions. Clarke laughs and stands back up, catching Bellamy's eye as she does, and if he had any doubts about his stupid crush, well. He probably can't hide behind them now. 

The next 6 kids are still screaming, though, and then a 1-year-old throws up sugar cookie all over his jacket because this job is the best. He’s in the back room, stripped down to just the faux-velvet pants and weird plastic boots, when he turns to see Clarke leaning against the doorway. She’s a little flushed, so he doesn’t think she just got there, but her mouth is tilted in a slight smirk and she’s still wearing that stupid elf dress in a way that makes him think he doesn’t have any room to feel smug.

“I thought you could probably use these,” she says, pushing off the door frame and walking towards him. She holds out a bright yellow pack of wet wipes, the kind made to keep in purses and car glove boxes.

“Thanks, princess.” His hand reaches out to tap the little crown sticker smacked haphazardly against her cheek before he can stop himself. She turns a little pinker and Bellamy tries not to fidget at the sight, tries not to think about the heat of her skin. He opens the wipes instead and immediately scrubs one over his face, raising an eyebrow when he looks up and Clarke is still standing there, openly watching him.

She just shrugs. “What? You know you’re attractive. I’m just making sure you don’t miss any vomit. I’m providing a _service_.”

He snorts, feels his neck warm, but just takes another wipe to scour his chest, then his arms and neck.

“You know,” Clarke says, moving to perch on the edge of one of the tables, “I had to take a fashion design course last year. I could probably turn that costume into Krampus if you’re not feeling particularly giving.”

“I’m not sure how I feel about whipping children and dragging them to hell.”

“Fair enough. Well, we could always go with Père Fouettard. Butcher, chopped three kids into pieces, kept their remains in salt barrels until St. Nicholas came to resurrect them.”

“Oh, good. That’s much less morally ambiguous.”

He looks at her as he pulls one of the spare undershirts he keeps in his locker—because the padding always leaves him sticky with sweat by the end of a shift and he learned quickly that doesn’t mix well with the cold weather—over his head, watching Clarke kick her legs where they dangle. She somehow still looks good under the ugly mall fluorescents, hair shining and eyes gleaming, all brightness and open invitation leaning back on her hands on the gray linoleum tabletop. His chest feels tight and Bellamy knows the breakroom tables are all permanently sticky with spilled coffee and soda, but that doesn’t stop some part of him from wanting to push her back on it.

He ignores the impulse. “Are you a folklore expert on all holidays, or is it limited to Christmas specifically?”

She laughs, shakes her head a little so her braid bounces. “Nah, that’s pretty much the extent of it. My high school French teacher insisted on reading us the story of Père Fouettard every year, complete with illustrative actions. That kind of shit sticks with you.”

When he finally makes it home that night, Bellamy falls face first onto the sofa, not even bothering to kick off his shoes. _Jingle Bells_ is stuck in his head from the twenty times it played over the loud speakers today and he can hear the crack of candle wicks popping because, while she had acquiesced to it being most practical for their apartment to have the small artificial tree that sits on the coffee table, Octavia is determined to make up for it by burning pine-scented candles in every room—she insists the ones with the wooden wicks are inherently best—as if she could somehow trick reality into believing the dupe with enough effort. But the pillow he’s burrowed into is soft and cool against his wind-whipped cheek and he can’t find the energy to care about anything else.

“Bell!” A balled sock hits his cheek, and he doesn’t even bother looking before flipping off his sister. This pillow is his life now. It’s his love. It never throws socks at him. He doesn’t need anything else.

“Bellamy, come on.” He flips onto his back, peeling one eye open to find Octavia peering over him, hands on her hips. She’s wearing the same determined look she had when she convinced him to go to college after taking a year off, prepared to do anything but take ‘no’ for an answer. He had wanted to make sure she was settled after their mother died right before his high school graduation, and wanted to ensure their great-aunt Indra, who had come out of the woodwork in the will, was saving Octavia’s social security checks for college instead of spending them all on herself.

Octavia had put up with it for eleven months before insisting he ‘ _get his nerd ass in gear_ , _’_ which, in retrospect, was impressive restraint on her part. Bellamy applied to the university across town so he could still come back for dinner at least three times per week and that had seemed good enough for Octavia, since she moved into his apartment before beginning her first semester this fall.

“What, O?”

She raises her chin slightly, prepared for a fight she knows she’ll win. “We’re having a Christmas party. Here, Christmas Eve. All orphan and misfit children welcome.”

He groans. “What? No. Why?”

“Because I want to and I already told our friends they could come.”

He scrubs a hand over his face, sitting up slightly and trying to accept the harsh reality of his non-pillow-exclusive world.

“Also, you should invite Clarke,” she adds, deliberately casual. Octavia had walked into the apartment one evening when Clarke was tossing pieces of pretzels at his mouth, quizzing him on Medici’s patronage of the arts for every one he missed. And, because she has a knack for pushing Bellamy’s buttons, she had immediately read the situation for what it was: her brother being stupidly into this girl.

Stupidly, stupidly into her.

He could hit himself for ever letting this happen. “She probably has family she’s doing things with. She’s not actually an orphan or misfit kid.”

“Still, you’re inviting her. Do something about your crush!” Octavia smacks a quick kiss to his cheek before he can glare at her, then strolls back towards her room, the matter apparently settled. “There’s leftovers in the fridge. Goodnight, big brother, love you!”

He falls back onto the pillow and doesn't move for a while.

 

* * *

 

It’s the week before Christmas the next time he and Clarke are on shift together, which seems late to invite her to a party for a major holiday. That’d be rude. Surely it’s more polite to just not invite her at all, right?

Bellamy’s most of the way through convincing himself to just ignore the whole thing, making small talk with Clarke as they both slip into polyester, when his phone goes off in his locker.

It’s Octavia, of course, because she has a sixth sense when it comes to him avoiding things.

_invite her!!!! if u don’t, i will march down there and do it myself! don’t make me kick santa’s ass in front of the children, bell_

He sighs, but, well, it’s not like it can hurt. Probably.

“My sister wants me to invite you to our Christmas party. It’s Christmas Eve, apparently, but I’m sure you probably have things to do, so don’t worry about it, really. I did my duty. Now she can’t come down here and traumatize a bunch of kids by showing them Santa’s really a half-Filipino college student.”

Clarke huffs a laugh, and even that is enough to make her eyes spark. “I don’t have anything going on, actually. Dad’s dead, mom’s on a cruise, best friend’s out of town. And, I mean, if _your sister_ would like me to be there…” Her mouth is titled into a half-smirk while she stares at him pointedly and Bellamy can feel his ears pink under her gaze.

“I, uh, I’d like you to be there, too,” he fumbles out, wetting his lips against their sudden dryness.

“Well then,” Clarke says, bright, “I guess I’ll be there. Let’s go, Santa! It’s show time.”

She shuts her locker and presses up to brush her lips against his cheek before bounding out of the room.

Bellamy’s left staring after her, bobbled hat crushed in his hand.

 

* * *

 

He keeps replaying the scene in his head in the days leading up to the party. It was only a second, but the way Clarke felt soft and warm against his side is stuck on loop, his cheek tingling each time she crosses his mind. Which, admittedly, she does a lot.

It helps that work is obscenely busy in the following days, frazzled parents and strung-out kids cramming in for last-minute Christmas cards and a chance to give their list to Santa, so he has fewer chances to think about how lightly her lips touched his skin. He convinces himself the whole ordeal doesn’t mean anything. Bellamy is casually affectionate with the people he trusts, always kissing Raven’s head or keeping an arm looped over Miller’s shoulder after he’s had a beer. It’s probably nothing, Clarke’s kiss.

But that doesn’t stop the moment from repeating, or every traitorous part of him from hoping.

On the 22nd, he and Clarke get off the afternoon shift at the same time. He’s pointedly not paying attention to the way the strap of her bag settles between her breasts as she slips it over her shoulder when she says, “I took the bus today, but I’ll walk you to your car? The stop’s out by the parking lot anyway.” She looks content to fall into step with him, and Bellamy doesn’t protest.

They make their way towards the exits together, weaving through throngs of people surrounding the food court while they laugh about the toddler who refused to relinquish his stuffed zebra for the picture despite his mother’s repeated requests, and the six-year-old who had asked so sincerely if Santa couldn’t give up Rudolph for just a day so she could bring him to show-and-tell that Bellamy hadn’t known what to do except say he’d think about it.

It’s easy like this, conversation companionable and shoulders bumping, and then Clarke stops in front of a fierce-looking brunette who pulls her in for a tight hug, hands resting on her waist momentarily in a way that speaks of familiarity.

Bellamy waits for a minute to see if Clarke wants to continue with him, but she’s grinning and laughing and _shining_ with this stranger in a way that makes his heart twist, hand reaching out to touch the other girl’s shoulder, relaxed and affectionate. It’s too much, suddenly, to see this woman and this joy and this life he can’t have, so he moves until he thinks he catches Clarke’s eye, gives her a small wave and turns around before she can introduce him to her girlfriend or tell him goodbye.

He pushes through the mall’s glass doors and breathes in the cool air outside, letting his ears sting with the wind’s bite and his boots scuff the coke can in his path. It's snowing, the kind they get most often here—wet and sloppy, sticking to the ground through sheer force of will because they're too close to the shore for anything fluffy, and the mess feels fitting. He shuffles through it, alternately berating himself for thinking _Clarke_ could ever want him and adamantly avoiding thinking of her at all, because she deserves to be happy, he _wants_ her to be happy, whoever she’s with.

He’s halfway to his car when he hears his name being called.

“Bellamy! Hey, _Bellamy!_ ”

He turns and sees Clarke jogging towards him, giant gray scarf bouncing and hair shining white in the fading light.

“What was that? You just disappeared on me. I don’t even get a goodbye?” Her voice is light but confusion rests around her eyes alongside something fiery, clear and burning in the winter cold.

He shuffles his feet, hand rubbing at the back of his neck. “You seemed busy. I just…I figured I’d see you later.”

She studies him, careful and considering in a way he’s not sure how to read, then takes a step forward, smile tilting the birthmark at the edge of her lips up ever so slightly.

“Lexa's just a friend.” Bellamy averts his eyes, embarrassed and searching out the horizon over the car tops. Clarke takes his hand in hers, squeezing her gloveless fingers around his before he has the chance to say anything. “We went on a date once, a year ago, before her high school sweetheart moved back to town. We keep in touch, that’s all.”

Clarke’s so close that she's looking up at him through her lashes, blue eyes dancing as she smirks. “Besides, I like you better, anyway.”

Then his chest is warm and blooming and bright because Clarke is pressed up against it, her lips on his and her fingertips cold against his cheek, grounding him to this reality. Bellamy realizes what’s happening, heart tripping over itself, and wraps his arms around her waist, squeezing her in as tight as he can through the layers of winter clothing. He kisses her back so that she sighs against his mouth, opens slightly and lets their tongues curl against each other’s before they pull back, pink and flushed and wearing matching grins.

“Yeah?” he says, nosing her cheek so he can feel her breath fan across his face. “You like me, huh?”

She laughs, rolling her eyes and pulling him towards his car, taking the keys from his coat pocket to unlock it and slide in before he has the chance. “Yeah. And I think you like me, too.” He agrees right before she tugs him back into her lips.

 

* * *

 

Bellamy has to admit that the Christmas party isn’t the worst idea Octavia’s ever had. The living room feels cozy with strands of lights draping the ceiling, tiny paper snowflakes shining where they hang, and all the people he likes best are in one place.

Clarke included.

She shows up in an oversized knit sweater with an image of mistletoe woven into the front, legs covered in black tights gone a little sheer at the knee that Bellamy spends half of the night running his hands over, feeling the way the smooth fabric slides between their skin, and the other half trying not to. Clarke fits in easily, like she’s always been there, and Bellamy can’t help but wonder if maybe she has been, dancing just outside his periphery until the time was right.

She already knows Lincoln from a studio art class, and she and Raven apparently became friends after some weird boy-related incident they both keep cracking jokes about but no one else quite gets. She’s even somehow smuggled spare reindeer antler headbands from work, each decorated (“enhanced,” according to Clarke, and Bellamy can’t disagree) with tiny bells and calligraphed curse words scrawled in red or green glitter paint.

It’s natural and nice, to have Clarke here like this, laughing and always coming back to his side like she feels the pull as much as he does.

She stays after everyone else has left wrapped in wool and tipsy on cider, even Octavia venturing into the chilly air to spend the night with Lincoln, and it feels almost too easy, too good, that he gets to have her in any way she wants to give.

But she’s there, draped dramatically over the back of the sofa with an arm thrown across her eyes and her hair fanning messily until Bellamy chuckles and pulls her up, running his hands up and down her side before settling his arms around her waist.

“Thanks for coming tonight.”

She shrugs, smiling up at him. “Of course. It was fun.” She grabs his hand and heads in the direction of the hallway. “Now, where’s your room?”

He laughs, kissing her like he’s wanted to all evening as he pushes through the door. Clarke flops onto his bed, leaning back on her hands casual and accustomed like she’s done it a hundred times.

He hope she does it a hundred times more.

Bellamy stands in front of her, both amused and soft from the comfort of the evening, fingering the hem of her sweater where it falls across her thighs and absentmindedly watching the mistletoe leaves ripple across her body with the movement.

“You know, you’re usually supposed to hang mistletoe _above_ the thing you want to be kissed.”

She smirks and cocks an eyebrow, suddenly salacious in a way that makes his pulse quicken. “I know.” She pulls him towards her by his arm. “So, tell me, Santa, are chimneys the only things that make you go down?”

He grins and falls into her because this—Clarke pressed against him, laughing and tugging at his shirt and so vibrant she glows?

It’s definitely something he can work with.

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer that I know nothing about actually being a mall Santa. But my high school French teacher did, in fact, read us a children's book about Père Fouettard every year, complete with actions, which is definitely the kind of shit that sticks with you.
> 
> Thanks for reading/hope you enjoyed! As usual, I'm on tumblr with fic-related things [here](http://apanoplyoffic.tumblr.com/) and more generally [here](http://apanoplyofsong.tumblr.com/).


End file.
